


I Am Not a Hero

by quantumoddity



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Art, Bisexual Alexander Hamilton, Childhood Memories, College, Developing Relationship, Drawing, Eliza is an artist, F/M, Family Fluff, Fluff, Forgiveness, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Love, Mental Health Issues, Pining, Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-13 05:15:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7963888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quantumoddity/pseuds/quantumoddity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'All of a sudden, there were less and less drawings of plants and more drawings of a certain boy with long hair down to his shoulders and permanent bags under his eyes and a brave attempt at a goatee. A boy with an easy smile that Eliza found herself thinking about a lot, even after she closed her eyes at night, and a laugh that always seemed to make her day brighter when she heard it.' </p>
<p>Eliza isn't an artist. She just likes to draw what goes on around her. She likes to create, to document. </p>
<p>She just didn't realise how hard her life was going to turn out to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A study of Eliza Schuyler's life and her relationship with Alexander Hamilton, through the idea of her being an artist and sketching what happens around her. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, comments and feedback would mean the world, thank you!

Eliza was a good student; she got in fewer arguments with authority figures than her older sister and she fell asleep in class less than her younger sister. The only thing she ever got in trouble for was daydreaming, for doodling in her notebook when she was supposed to be listening.

Her maths homework would be handed back covered with flowers, little roses in the corners and twisting vines up the margins, though all the answers would be correct. The work in her notebook was immaculate but the inside covers were a carefully pencilled menagerie, covered with little sketches of the cats she and her sisters would see as they walked to school (they’d given them all names and personalities and invented elaborate adventures for their favourites). The teacher would call on her suddenly and she’d blush, having no answer but there would be a nice drawing of the blackbird that had been on her windowsill that morning in the corner of her page.

But when Eliza got home, she and her little notebook she’d been given for her birthday and her meticulously sharpened pencils were free, running off into the woods around the Schuyler house as soon as dinner was finished. She’d go sit in the best spot, the one by the pond against the old tree that seemed to be perfectly shaped to her back, in the dappled light that threw patterns across her skin. She’d draw happily until her sisters came to pull her into some game or else the sun began to sink below the horizon and her mother called her back in. She’d feel so free, so happy, like all her worries couldn’t touch her.

But if anyone ever asked to see what was in her notebook, if her mother ever came up behind her curiously as her daughter sat scribbling at the kitchen table or if Angie or Peggy ever tried to sneak it out of her hands as they wrestled, it would be quickly slammed shut. Eliza would blush bright red and insist that it wasn’t ready, that it wasn’t any good, that she was just doodling, that it was silly. And no amount of coercing from any of her family would change that. She didn’t take any art classes at school beyond the compulsory ones, even after she got excellent grades, even after nearly everyone who saw her doodles commented on how good they were.

But every time Eliza felt stressed or anxious, she’d always find calm in drawing. She wasn’t an artist. She just _liked_ it.

 

 

Eliza never drew anything in particular, usually just what was in front of her. That usually meant any one of the plants crowded on her bedroom windowsill or the ones she devotedly tended in her corner of the Schuyler gardens, turning the pages of her notebook into something resembling a study of the botanical gardens. She grew elaborate rainforests between the black leather covers of her moleskin notebook (the latest one that is, she had a box full of completed ones under her bed) each plant representing a time when she’d been sad, stressed or bored.

Or homesick. Or scared.

Eliza sat down on the slim bed, feeling the springs twang and creak under her. Her mom and dad had just left and she was now alone in her new dorm room. Her dark eyes took in her surroundings and she breathe deeply, telling herself that everything was going to be okay. She wasn’t the first kid in the world to go to college. Everything was going to be okay.

Eliza’s belongings looked cramped in this new, smaller space, like someone had took her old room back at her parents’ and warped it, squished it down. This place felt like someone else’s house or a hotel room maybe, somewhere where she felt compelled to perch on the edge of the bed rather than actually sit comfortably. And it was quiet. She couldn’t feel the low bass of her father’s voice from the next room as he read all his correspondences aloud to himself (he claimed it helped him think). She couldn’t hear her mother humming to herself as she read a book over on the window seat. She couldn’t hear the usual periodic crashes from a floor above her as Peggy knocked something else over in the hurried state she spent her life in. For the first time in a long time, those familiar noises were gone.

It was okay, wasn’t it? Angelica was at college, off getting her law degree, and all she talked about was how wonderful it was, how free she felt, how she could do whatever she wanted. Angelica had said moving away from home was great, so it was going to be great for Eliza too, right?

Eliza sighed, running an anxious hand through her hair. She didn’t really know what to do now.

So she did what she always did when she felt her mood slipping. She went and fished a pencil out of one of the plastic bags that were holding the possessions of hers that couldn’t be balanced on the flimsy desk or shelves. She pulled her notebook out of her pocket, leaned against the wall and hugged her knees against her chest and drew.

Once there was a small picture of her favourite succulent (though she’d never admit it, she fiercely maintained that she loved them all equally) gracing the corner of a page, Eliza felt a little better.

She was just giving in a faint smile when there was a knock at her door. Before she could even blink, a young man was poking his head around the door, his corkscrew curls bouncing.

“Bonjour!” he declared in a thick French accent, his smile kind and wide, “I’m living on this floor too! You can call me Lafayette, what’s your name?”

Eliza tilted her head; his smile was infectious.

Maybe things were going to be okay. Yet more proof she should always listen to her sister.

 

 

Working at the library actually became a form of entertainment when it was with Alex.

“Dude, seriously, stop and breathe. You’re starting to scare me,” Eliza laughed as she sat across from him, marvelling at how his hands were actually blurring, he was typing so fast.

“I’ll stop when I die!” he sang out brightly, not even looking away from the screen.

Eliza shook her head in mock despair. She couldn’t complain; he was drinking and eating at least, with one hand while the other one kept on rattling away. That essay would be done in no time, even if it would end up being a good few pages over the limit, but there would always be something else and then something else. Eliza had been friends with Alex for half a year now; she knew how he operated.

“Listen,” she yawned, glancing at her watch, “By the standards of _normal_ people, it’s getting late. I think I’m going to go for a walk around the park and then head home.”

Alex looked up, blinking, “Oh, the park? Okay then. Mind if I come with?”

Eliza nearly dropped her travel mug in shock. Alexander Hamilton was stepping away from work voluntarily before ten at night. Was it a sign of the apocalypse? Had she stepped into some strange mirror dimension? Had he gone insane? Had _she_ gone insane?

She reached over the desk and held the back of her hand against his forehead, pretending to check for life threatening illnesses. Alex squirmed away, laughing.

“What?” he grinned coyly.

“You know damn well what!” she exclaimed, “You’re mid essay and you’re stopping?”

“I want to spend some time with my best friend instead of writing about global economics, is that so insane?” he chuckled, raising an eyebrow at her.

Eliza had a snarky comeback ready; it was on the tip of her tongue. But then something changed.

She sat back down, staring at him like she was looking at someone completely new. It was like the expression a child had when they saw snow for the first time. A second ago everything had been normal and now things were…different. Her heartbeat was faster, her hands wouldn’t keep still and she was scared and excited all at once for a reason she couldn’t put her finger on.

Alex frowned quizzically, “You okay?”

Eliza shook herself, “Uh yeah. I’m fine…um, actually I need another half an hour? Just to wrap this report up?”

Alex nodded, giving her a small smile as he turned back to his laptop, “Sure thing.”

But Eliza didn’t turn back to her report on early personality development in children. Instead, she found her pencil, pulled her notebook out of her bag and flipped to the next clean page. She studied Alex’s face, noting the lines of concentration, the tightness in his jaw muscles, the way the sharp light from the screen illuminated the focus in his eyes.

Half an hour passed. Eliza didn’t say a word, she just scribbled, her eyes flickering upwards every so often.

“Okay, I’m ready” Alex smiled, as he started to wrangle his stuff back together, all the chewed pens and sheaves of paper that had gradually migrated away from his flurry of activity. He gave a short bark of slightly nervous laughter as he noticed her dreamy, far away expression, “Hey, are you sure you’re okay?”

Eliza put her pencil down, blinking at him curiously.

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

Was she?

 

Things changed after that.

All of a sudden, there were less and less drawings of plants and more drawings of a certain boy with long hair down to his shoulders and permanent bags under his eyes and a brave attempt at a goatee. A boy with an easy smile that Eliza found herself thinking about a lot, even after she closed her eyes at night, and a laugh that always seemed to make her day brighter when she heard it.

There were drawings of Alex laughing, of Alex dancing, of him watching a film while splayed out in a position that no one else would ever find comfortable, of him crashed out in the library with his head pillowed on his folded arms.

One morning in class, Eliz flicked back through the last few pages, a thought crystalizing in her mind. She wanted to keep denying it, to keep pretending that he was just a really good friend, that it was nothing. But each drawing was another piece of proof.

She might be in love with Alex.

“Oh fuck,” she breathed in horror, her head falling into her hands.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ve got you...it’s okay. Take all the time you need. I’m here.”
> 
> Alex and Eliza both have parts of themselves they'd rather the other didn't see. But this is when the walls break down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A study of Eliza Schuyler's life and her relationship with Alexander Hamilton, through the idea of her being an artist and sketching what happens around her.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, comments and feedback would mean the world, thank you!

Years later, when she was looking through her old notebooks, Eliza would think back on that version of herself, the gangly and over enthusiastic girl she’d been who’d worn cardigans and combat boots without irony and spent ages pining after her best friend like someone in a bad romantic comedy. She’d cringe a little and laugh and reminisce with Alex about what a dork she’d been.

But then she’d think about that night after she and Alex had gotten together, how she hadn’t slept at all because she’d just been so god damn excited, how she’d jumped all around her dorm room, punching the air and screaming silently, feeling the kind of completely free happiness that burned so bright it kind of hurt.

And she’d kind of miss that awkward young girl.

 

Summer used to be Eliza’s favourite time of year when she was a little girl and her marathon sulks when it was time to go back to school became legend in their family. But now she was in college, with a boyfriend back in New York that she missed desperately, it was the complete opposite.

She went back to school as early as her parents would allow. It was a three-hour train to get back into the city and she’d thought that after almost a fortnight apart from Alex it would be easy. Apparently not. She was so wound up she couldn’t even concentrate enough to draw or read or do anything other than just staring out of the window, bouncing her leg impatiently and texting him every five minutes. Though it turned out to be mutual; it made her smile when Alex eventually confessed that he’d got to the station half an hour early simply because he was as eager as her.

It was busy on the platform but they found each other within a heartbeat, like some kind of force was pulling them together. Their expressions mirrored each other, shining with delight and relief as they ran at each other. Eliza took a flying leap at Alex, carelessly dropping her backpack on the floor, and he only just managed to keep his balance, artfully turning an awkward stumble into spinning her around like they were in goddamn Dirty Dancing. Neither of them paid the slightest bit of attention to the looks they were getting as they kissed so forcefully and openly they were ran the risk of getting arrested.

“I missed you,” Alex murmured against her skin, holding her like he had no intention of ever letting go and she was just going to have to deal with that.

“I missed you too,” she giggled as his rough face tickled her neck.

He would never admit defeat but she could feel his limbs trembling with the effort of holding her up so she scrambled down, he shouldered her bags and they headed off to grab a coffee and talk for hours, lost in the sound of each other’s voices like they’d been apart for years rather than two weeks.

“Oh by the way,” Alex grinned, pulling out her notebook, which he’d picked up after it had gone flying out of Eliza’s jacket as she’d pounced on him, “You dropped your super-secret-journal-that-I’m-never-allowed-to-look-at-and-it-irritates-the-hell-out-of-me.”

Eliza rolled her eyes. Alex was ten times worse than her sisters had ever been; he despised not knowing things, especially things about his girlfriend. She’d had to smack his hand away or shove him back with a hand on his face more times that she could count.

Eliza was about to bite back when something stopped her. She’d realised something over summer. She was familiar with the ache of missing your family and it had been odd to be surrounded by her parents and her siblings and still feel it. Which left one explanation; Alex was her family.

“Why don’t you have a look then?” she said quietly, staring into her teacup, avoiding his eyes.

Alex’s jaw nearly hit the table, “Seriously? You’re giving up?”

“I’m not giving up,” she was slightly scandalised, “I’m trying to make a gesture to show how much I love you and trust you, moron.”

His eyes shone and he grinned his crooked smile as he opened up the slim black leather book. Eliza watched him through her fingers, watching his expression with a nervous wince, an increasing percentage of her brain screaming at her that this had been an awful idea and to smash her mug to cause a diversion and make a break for it.

Alex had a very open face; you could read every flicker of emotion in his expression clear as day. As he reverently turned the pages, his eyes widened with awe.

“Eliza, sweetie, there are _unbelievable_ ,” he gasped, looking at her tiny little pencil sketches of her spider plant the way people looked at a Monet.

Eliza squirmed, feeling her cheeks warm and a goofy smile grow on her face, completely out of her control. She covered her mouth with the cup, simultaneously embarrassed and incredibly pleased by Alex’s praise.

“Oh wait, holy shit, is that _me?_ ”

She’d kind of forgotten the sheer volume of drawings she’d done. There may or may not have been tiny hearts in the corner of some of them. She risked a look at Alex who was staring at her with humungous shinning eyes and a glowing smile so wide he might break his face.

“Shut up,” Eliza groaned, sinking down in her seat, wondering if it was possible to drown in two inches of tea.

“You had such a crush on me,” he sang teasingly, leaning forward and waggling his eyebrows.

“Shut up! You had a crush on me too, I just had one…first. And for a lot longer.”

Alex giggled, reaching and taking her hand, threading his fingers through hers. His expression suddenly turned serious, “Honestly though, Eliza. Thank you so much for showing me this. This is…like, there aren’t even words.”

Eliza tilted her head, forcing herself to look him in the eyes, “You’re welcome.”

Alex was apparently capable of letting go of some things, he saw his effervescent applause make Eliza writhe so he didn’t make a big deal out of it from that morning on. But whenever he saw her reach for her notebook and pencil as they lay on the grass in the park, his head resting in her lap, or as they worked late into the night in a nest of papers, working across from each other and occasionally letting their hands or legs brush each other, he’d grin. Every so often, he’d come home from his evening classes, later than he said he’d be for date night, with a few new markers, a fresh pad of paper or a set of watercolours where he’d simply shrug and modestly mumble that he’d just happened upon them and they made him think of her.

And Eliza would remember how lucky she was.

 

At first Alex had tried to hide his panic attacks from his friends. When he turned up to hang outs with red eyes, panting like he’d ran a mile, shivering even if he was wearing one of his oversized hoodies, he’d just shake his head, lie and insist he was fine. He took his meds only when he was alone, when there was no possible chance of anyone seeing him, and he would rather jump out of a window than open up about it. Even after every single one of them had told him he was full of shit and mental health problems were nothing to be ashamed of, his inflated pride and stubbornness kept hundred foot high walls around that part of him. All the judgemental stares he’d been given as a boy, all the times he’d been told something was wrong with him had turned him into a young man who was scared of himself. He’d convinced himself a long time ago that people wouldn’t understand.

But then there was Eliza. Eliza understood.

It took a lot of time and effort and patience from both of them but they eventually reached a point when Alex wouldn’t hide or make excuses when he felt panic rising in him for reasons he didn’t know and couldn’t control. He let Eliza see all his rough edges and splintered ends and she just held them with careful hands and tell him that everything was going to be okay, that she was here and she always would be. And by some insane miracle, he’d actually believe her.

Night times were the worst, when he was exhausted and weary and his head hurt too much to wrestle with his more poisonous thoughts. He and Eliza would watch dumb TV shows or go for walks in the dark to distract him but sometimes it wouldn’t be enough. That’s when she would stroke his hair and murmur quietly so he could latch on to her voice while he buried his face in her chest and cry.

“Alex, just breathe for me. Just try and breathe,” Eliza wove her fingers through his hair, trying to steady his shaking.

He groaned low in his throat as tried to catch his breath, coughing between sobs. Eliza was sat on her bed, leaning against the wall so she could even entwine her legs around his as well as hold him in her arms, trying to comfort as much of him as physically possible. Her other hand moved in slow comforting circles on his heaving back. It scared her to see him like this but the thought of her Alex going through this alone was more than she could bear. Not again. Never again.

“I’ve got you Alex, it’s okay. Take all the time you need. I’m here.”

Eventually the storm passed and he began to regain control, though they didn’t let go of each other even after his breathing slowed and his heart stopped hammering so hard she could feel it.

“Hey,” Eliza murmured softly, kissing the top of his head, “You did it. I’m proud of you.”

Alex pulled away from her a little, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand, wincing at how they stung with salt. He pulled a face at the mess he’d made of the front of her jumper, “Sorry.”

Eliza frowned, tapping his nose with her finger playfully, “What did I say?”

He managed a smile; a small, brave smile and her heart broke for him all over again.

“Don’t apologise for my anxiety attacks,” he intoned, nodding slightly, “I know. Though I’m not really apologising for that, more for getting snot all over you.”

The two of them laughed a little despairingly, Eliza pushing her fingers through the bird’s nest his hair had turned into.

“Can you read to me for a bit?” he asked, quietly, “Or can I watch you draw?”

These were his favourite ways of recovering after an episode, the ones they’d found that worked the best. Though Eliza was always researching; her search history was full of mental health websites she’d scoured for any and every way she could help her boyfriend. And the other day, she’d had an idea.

“Actually, I want to try something,” Eliza said as she squirmed into a sitting position and scooted along to the end of the bed.

“Sure, I trust you,” Alex replied quietly, sincerely.

She looked up from rummaging through her crafts box (yes she had a craft box and yes Alex always teased her about it) to share a look with him. Those words were simple but both of them knew how much they meant. Trust meant the world to them.

She was still beaming as she butt shuffled her way back to him, holding her set of paints, a brush and the glass of water from her desk that she’d forgotten to drink that morning.

“Hey, you _do_ use them!” Alex said excitedly, gesturing to the clearly worn pallet.

“Yeah,” she smiled, as she tucked the paintbrush behind her ear, “I’m still awful at painting but it’s really fun.”

Alex pulled a face, “Well you still insist that you’re bad at drawing at I know for a fact that you’re full of shit on that score. So forgive me if I ignore that.”

Eliza gave him a playful glare and made an elaborate pantomime of nearly spilling the water all over him, giggling as he flinched away with a squeak of surprise.

“Take your shirt off and lie on your belly,” she instructed, gesturing.

He gave her a quizzical look, “You going to paint me? Want me to pose or something?”

“Not quite,” she smiled, “I’m going to paint on you.”

His eyes were a little confused but he obeyed willingly. Eliza straddled him and painted colourful sunbursts across his back, planets and stars and bright, rainbow patterns, using every single colour she had. Then she turned him over and conjured up twisting vines with delicate blue flowers and jagged, wintery tree branches across his chest, down to his navel and up to his throat. She even painted small bisexual pride flags of purple, pink and blue on the palms of his hands, making him laugh wryly when he saw. As she painted, Alex had his eyes closed in bliss, enjoying the gentle sweep of the brush against his skin so much that he’d have purred if he’d had the capacity to.

It was well past midnight by the time they were finished, not only Alex but also Eliza, Eliza’s clothes and Eliza’s bed sheets were covered in paint.

“Shower?” she suggested, admiring her jumper, which now looked like a particularly messy Pollock.

Alex was still admiring his chest delightedly. The salty rawness of his eyes was gone; the colour was back in his cheeks, “I don’t want it to go. It’s amazing.”

Eliza grinned, “I’ll paint something better some other time, something that doesn’t look like a kindergartener did it.”

“Shut up,” Alex shook his head, “It’s perfect.”

It didn’t take long to draw him into the shower, however. The two of them watched the water run down into the drain in a hundred different colours and then gave in, collapsing against each other and kissing hard, hands roving. Before they surrendered completely, Alex pulled away a little to look into her eyes with as much love as she’d ever seen.

“Thank you, Eliza. Thank you so much,” he murmured, his voice thick.

Eliza smiled, guessing that he wasn’t just talking about the paint, “Anytime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey I'm on tumblr, quantum-oddity. Come interact with me!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s just…I wish I could go back and show this to the kid I was. The idea that I’d ever have anything like this, Eliza, anything this perfect and beautiful and…”
> 
> Things start to unravel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A study of Eliza Schuyler's life and her relationship with Alexander Hamilton, through the idea of her being an artist and sketching what happens around her.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, comments and feedback would mean the world, thank you!

Alexander wasn’t known for being a great sleeper but he’d had a long week at the firm, his pride and determination to prove himself taking priority over his health but now he’d hit his wall. He’d have fallen asleep with his clothes still on if his wife had let him; he was so deeply exhausted. So when Eliza wriggled out of his embrace and out of the bed, he barely even stirred, his arm just listlessly flopping onto the empty space she’d left.

She groaned quietly as she sat up, passing one hand through her tangled hair while the other patted her stomach, the slight outwards slope of it growing more and more noticeable by the day. Apparently unborn babies were nocturnal; the kicking and squirming inside her only seemed to start up exactly when she was trying to sleep.

“I hope you haven’t inherited your dad’s sleeping schedule,” she sighed, looking from her sleeping husband to down at the bump in her abdomen, “Then we’re all in trouble.”

Eliza pulled on a dressing gown (Alex’s) and padded as quietly as possible out of their bedroom and into the kitchen. There was still that sense of unfamiliarity as she moved through the dark apartment, they’d only moved in a week ago and this place didn’t quite feel like home yet. But the more framed photos Eliza hung on the walls, the more accidental pen marks Alex left on the kitchen table, the more items of clothing that were carelessly left on the backs of chairs and on the floor in their haste to get at each other after a long day kept apart by work, it was getting there.

Eliza poured herself a glass of water and sipped it contemplatively as she gazed out of the window at the city in darkness, though it wasn’t real darkness. Through the sickly orange light of the streetlamps and the bright squares of light tessellating up the sides of the apartment blocks and the various neon sights, glowing with bright candy-esque colours, this was a very different view from the ones she remembered from Albany. She liked this though; she liked the busyness of it, the reminder that other people were out there living their own lives parallel to her’s. Sometimes when the pitch-black night fell around the Schuyler house, with only the pinpoint light of the stars and silver wash of the moon, it could feel like she was the only person in the whole world.

Her glass was empty but there was still an uncomfortable writhing in her womb, tiny hands exploring her from the inside. Sleep was still out of the question.

“Well, if we’re going to be awake anyway, might as well do something,” Eliza murmured, accepting defeat.

She hunted down her latest journal from the pocket of her duffel coat and a pencil from the kitchen counter. She went back into the bedroom, starting to get an idea of which creaking floorboards to avoid, and sat on the window seat so the light from the street outside would fall across the page.

Eliza spent a while considering what to draw, idly tracing a few patterns in the corner while she thought. Alex shifted and snorted in his sleep, making her jump, as he rolled over so his loose hair fell across his face and in his slack mouth.

“Look at your idiot of a dad,” Eliza murmured to her baby, shaking her head in mock despair.

She knew what to draw.

Eliza sketched out the sleeping form of her Alex, carefully replicating the relaxed set to his face, the curve of his bare back and the tendrils of hair. She was so absorbed in her work; she jumped a mile when her eyes flickered back up from the page to check the position of his left hand, only to find him awake and watching her wryly.

“Hey,” he croaked, propping himself up on his elbows.

“Hi,” she replied, a little bashfully, “Sorry, I didn’t notice you’d woken up.”

His smile was a flash of white in the gloom, “Nah, it’s fine. I love watching you draw me…but what are you doing up? You need your rest.”

Eliza sighed. Only Alex would be beyond exhausted, having done a week of work on the barest amount of sleep, but still only worry about how _she_ needed _her_ rest.

She gestured towards her bump, which was still full of restless activity, “Tell that to them.”

He pulled a sympathetic face, opening his arms and reaching for her, “Let me see what I can do.”

Now her focus had slipped, she was feeling her tiredness in earnest and went to him willingly, stripping off the robe and letting his arms envelop her, snuggling down into the warmth of his body. Alex held her from behind, his hands resting on her stomach, moving in comforting circles, his thumbs pressing gently.

“Come on, little one, let your mom get some sleep,” he murmured with fond sternness, addressing their child.

Alex had some kind of magic when it came to this, within minutes the shifting in her calmed and the baby settled under his touch. Eliza craned her neck to kiss him softly in thanks.

“You going to show me that drawing in the morning?” he asked quietly.

“Of course,” Eliza yawned as she drifted into sleep, “You’ve earned it.”

 

As the number of Hamilton children increased, Eliza’s free time for her art decreased in tandem. But her happiness multiplied more than she ever could have believed so it was a trade she was more than willing to make.

But there would always be those lazy few days just after each new arrival where Alex was on paternity leave and the other kids were up in Albany with their grandparents to give them some space so it would just be her, him and their little one. Eliza would spend most of the time napping, recovering from nine months of hard work. Meanwhile Alex would spend the hours simply staring at their new baby, amazed beyond words, or else devotedly taking care of his exhausted wife, touching her and kissing her at every opportunity like he couldn’t bear to do anything but. During those precious few days of quiet, that island of peace before their lives went back to normal, Eliza would fill up nearly a full notebook just with sketches and studies of her youngest, pouring all of the complicated and messy emotions she would feel out through her pencil, sorting it all out into feathery lines and neat shapes. Like a monk worshipfully illuminating manuscripts of saints, she’d memorize every detail of their face and recreate it lovingly, picking out the features that were hers and the features that were Alex’s.

Eliza would never admit it but she did have a favourite drawing from one of these maternal bursts of creativity. There was one drawing of Alex, sitting on the sofa with his knees pulled up so he could rest little James, only twenty-four hours old, against them, smiling down at his son with so much love. Her husband had just burst into tears when she’d shown him. Eliza had panicked a little, tried to apologise but he’d explained.

“It’s just…I wish I could go back and show this to the kid I was. The idea that I’d ever have anything like this, Eliza, anything this perfect and beautiful and…”

It was then he’d had the idea that each one of these journals would then be given to the child it was about as a present for their eighteenth birthday. Eliza thought that was a wonderful idea.

 

Eliza was famous amongst the other people who worked at the orphanage for beings slightly too enthusiastic during craft time with the kids. Technically, she was a senior coordinator; actually looking after the children wasn’t really her job but she always managed to gravitate towards the play centre during her lunch hour. Often her assistant would be looking for her with a stack of reports only to find Eliza sat in a chair that was much too small for her, with paint smudged across her face and on her fingers, showing a gaggle of little children how to paint different kinds of flowers.

The wallpaper of her office wasn’t actually visible under all of the children’s drawings that were tacked up all over it, some done last week and others from the very first week she spent doing work experience in a kindergarten near her college. Each one had a name and an age that Eliza didn’t need to look at; she knew every one of those kids by heart.

One day Alex was picking up Eliza so they could head off to a play Angie was in, admiring all of the drawings.

“Ever thought about putting some of your own work up on a wall?” he asked, in a voice that was trying to sound like he hadn’t asked that question a hundred times before.

Eliza rolled her eyes as she swept her things into her satchel, “If I ever do anything good enough, I might consider it.”

He gave her a look. They were very familiar with this by now, they’d done this dance a million times in a million different contexts, fighting back each other’s insecurities, countering every self deprecating comment with a compliment.

“Come on, let’s get going. I ran lines with our daughter for months for this, I am not missing a second,” Eliza smiled, threading her fingers through Alex’s and pulling him towards the door before he could continue the argument.

But he’d got her thinking. He usually did.

 

The next time Alex went into his office, it was late. He was tired and he had that bone deep sadness he’d been carrying around a lot recently, ever since he’d started…

He couldn’t even think it. Every time, afterwards, he felt so much shame and guilt he couldn’t stand it. He told himself never again, that he was done. And every time he found himself back there.

Alex was in the process of wiping a smudge of lipstick away from his jaw when he noticed it. A frame had appeared on his desk, a hand drawn picture. He knew that style. He recognised the pose, a photo version of it was in one of the albums under their bed. Him and Eliza on their wedding day, her in in his arms, gazing up at him with such certainty and trust. There was a Post it on the back, Eliza’s careful, deliberate handwriting asking ‘is this one any good?’ with a little smiling face.

Alex felt like he was going to be sick. Tears stung his eyes, burning as he broke down.

Never again. He was done.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things were different these days, with her and Alexander. It was difficult to put their situation in words, nothing had ever really stopped so it made no sense to say they were ‘back together’ or even that Eliza loved him again because she wasn’t sure that there was ever a time in her life that she didn’t love him. That was what had hurt so much. She had forgiven him. They were taking the broken pieces of what they’d once had and building something new, something that was never going to stand as straight or as secure as what had been before and would always have bits missing. But it was there and it belonged to both of them equally.
> 
> Looking back on your life can be difficult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A study of Eliza Schuyler's life and her relationship with Alexander Hamilton, through the idea of her being an artist and sketching what happens around her.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed my first multi chapter work, comments and feedback would mean the world, thank you!

Eliza loved to make art because it meant creating. It meant taking something blank, something where there was nothing, but with some time and effort, there would be something, thanks to her.

But now she didn’t want to create, she wanted to destroy.

She took everything he’d ever given her, all the love letters he’d written her, all the birthday cards and the notes from college. She took it all, all the words she’d saved because she’d used to read them and believe that as long as she had someone who felt this way about her, everything was going to be okay. These words had given her so much hope and now…

They weren’t even true. Were they?

Eliza clutched at her face, feeling her muscles tighten with grief. She knelt on the floor of her bedroom- their bedroom- with all those pieces of paper, yellowed with age and covered with words that had once made her so happy but now burned behind her eyelids and clawed at her insides. She didn’t want to feel like this anymore. She couldn’t.

Before she even knew what she was doing, she was getting to her feet and dragging the bin over from the corner. She took the pages in her hands, crushing them so she couldn’t see the words anymore, throwing them into the trash.

Not enough.

There were matches by her bed; she used them to light her scented candles. It didn’t feel like she was in control of her movements, like someone else was doing it and she was just standing back, watching, the word ‘stop’ lingering at the top of her throat but never moving any further.

It was like she blinked and she suddenly holding a lit match, holding it over the letters he’d given her.

She felt the choice, heavy in her hands. She took a breath.

The fire didn’t whoosh into life like she’d been imagining. It began slowly, making her hold on to that painful choice for even longer, the knowledge that she could still stop it.

And then it began in earnest, the smell of paper smoke filling the nose, her vision turning thick and grey, the pages turning black and curling as if bending double in pain.

The heat dried her cheeks, leaving only the sting of the salt. Eliza watched the flames until the light hurt her eyes, even then she didn’t turn away.

You wanted the world to know your name, she thought sadly, now they will. But you’ve lost all power over me. I’m done.

Eliza turned away from the flames, breathing hard. The fire alarm flared to life, the harsh beeping filling the room. She ignored it.

There was another box, the one full of her old journals. All her drawings of him from college were in there.

She rummaged through with shaking hands; finding the green one that she knew was full of him, full of his eyes, his smile, his hair. All those things she’d once thought belonged to her.

Eliza looked at the journal. She turned and looked at the flames.

Another choice.

 

Eliza didn’t draw again in the wake of the Reynolds pamphlet. She didn’t see the point. Art had always been her way of figuring out how she felt, of sorting through her emotions.

But things had changed; she knew how she felt. She was angry.

 

 And then things changed again. And there was no more anger, only more sadness than Eliza had ever felt.

 

Eliza learned in painful, precise detail all the different forms grief could take. It had been almost three months since she lost her son, her eldest son, her Phillip. And it was starting to shift from something sharp between her ribs to something heavy in her chest, from something that made her unable to do anything but curl up and cry to something that could be picked up and carried around. She’d started to walk her children to school again, to water her plants, to go to the store with Angelica, to think about tomorrow rather than simply bracing against today.

All that was gone. In one instant, all the progress she’d made was shattered.

Eliza felt her shoulders begin to shake, her eyes begin to burn and vision begin to blur as she held the slim leather notebook in her hands. Phillip’s book. The one full of her drawings of him, all the moments of his life that she’d been desperate to keep and hold and preserve, that she’d pressed into his hands on the morning of his eighteenth birthday.

She’d found in one of the drawers of her son’s bedroom. She’d known this was a mistake, that she shouldn’t have done this. She couldn’t do this. She _couldn’t do this._

“Mommy?” the voice behind her was small, damp, “Mommy, I hurt my finger in the door.”

Eliza took a deep breath, pulled up whatever scraps of strength she had left. She didn’t have a choice.

“Oh no, did you?” she got off her knees and turned to her youngest son, wincing sympathetically at his red, tear streaked little face, “Come here, honey, let me see.”

Will’s eyes widened, Eliza realised how she must look, having just swallowed back a mental breakdown. She hurriedly rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands and dredged up a smile from she couldn’t say where, opening up her arms for him to run into. She let his tears dampen her shoulder, his warmth and the feel of his dark curls tickling her nose helping her heart beat to slow and her breathing to return to normal. She kissed the red mark on his little finger, tickling him until he smiled again.

“Want to come and play in my craft room while I do some work?” she asked, getting an eager nod in response.

Her family needed her. She couldn’t fall apart again.

Before she sat at her desk and pulled a large sheet of paper and her watercolours towards her, she knew what she was going to do. It took her the rest of the day, her children moved around her but she stayed focused, not even noticing the blisters rising on her fingers. The sun had set hours ago by the time she finally straightened up, satisfied.

Eliza was gone so long, Alex risked being in the same room as his wife to go and find her. He lingered in the doorway of her craft room, his mouth open but words failing him. That never used to happen.

“Um hey…are you…I mean, you…um, you missed dinner?” he tried lamely, even as he spoke cursing himself.

Eliza jumped, unaware that he’d even been standing there, looking at him like a startled animal. When she saw him, her expression changed but to what neither of them knew. Alex’s eyes were sad and flickered down and that’s when he saw what she’d been working on.

It was Phillip, just as he’d been before… With his father’s crooked, easy smile and his mothers heart shaped face, with his curls and his dark eyes. Always smiling.

Alex swallowed hard, suddenly shaking. He didn’t look back at Eliza.

“Angelica called today,” Eliza’s voice was flat, “She found a place uptown, she wants us to have a look.”

Alex just nodded, practically turning tail and running from the room. Eliza sighed, picked up the weight of her grief again (though a little more willingly than she had before) and followed him out.

 

It was as if all the words Alex had wanted to say to Eliza over the last year but hadn’t been able to were all trying to get out at once. When they were alone, he never stopped, talking about anything and everything, and always asking questions, asking if she was enjoying herself, if she was having a good day, if she’d taken her meds. If she was honest with herself, Eliza actually quite liked it. She liked knowing someone was there, someone who also understood what most others could never understand.

Things were different these days, with her and Alexander. It was difficult to put their situation in words, nothing had ever really _stopped_ so it made no sense to say they were ‘back together’ or even that Eliza loved him again because she wasn’t sure that there was ever a time in her life that she didn’t love him. That was what had hurt so much. She had forgiven him. They were taking the broken pieces of what they’d once had and building something new, something that was never going to stand as straight or as secure as what had been before and would always have bits missing. But it was there and it belonged to both of them equally.

Angelica, who Eliza could never begin to repay for all she’d done in the past few years, had called her strong. But Eliza didn’t think that was true; carrying around her grief and her anger and her sadness had been killing her, poisoning her. Forgiving Alex had felt like the easy choice. After she’d said this, Angelica had shaken her head, gently framing her sister’s face with her hands, the threat of tears in her eyes.

“You’re the best of all of us, Eliza,” she’d smiled a little sadly.

 They took a lot of walks, the two of them. Physical movement helped, when the sadness and anxiety became like an itch on the skin. It always seemed to be at night that it became the worst, grief kept unusual hours.

She recognised this restlessness from Alex, who must have walked nearly the entire length of the city some days just after Philip had been taken from them. Eliza hadn’t felt like that then, her sadness had immobilised her whereas it had lit a fire under her husband. So many people had mentioned it to her quietly, anxiously, saying they’d seen him striding along streets he had no business being on, talking to himself incessantly, was he doing okay, that didn’t seem healthy?

Eliza understood. And now Alex had someone to talk to.

“You two can go if you want. I’ll stay up,” Alex Jr had said one night, sitting in the living room with a book he wasn’t really reading, he was actually watching his parents fidget over on the couch.

“Oh no, kiddo, its getting late-“ Alexander had began to protest, weakly, glancing at the clock nervously.

“Dad, seriously it’s fine. It’s not even a school night,” his son said firmly, with a tone of conviction, knowledge that he’d won the argument before he’d even started, that was his father all over, “I’ll take first watch.”

That’s how Alex and Eliza had found themselves sitting on a bench in the park at midnight.

“I hate it when people use that phrase ‘lost your son’,” Alex was saying in a trembling voice, his hands clenched into fists beside him, “It makes us sound careless. Like we did something wrong.”

Didn’t we? Eliza wondered sadly, but she didn’t say anything. Alex didn’t need to hear that. Instead she reached over and took one of his hands in her’s, pressing her thumb into his palm in small circles until the muscles relaxed and the tension disappeared. She heard him take a small gasping breath at the contact. These days, simply taking his hand was enough to make him cry. Little acts like that, that he’d thought he’d lost forever. He squeezed back.

“Do you know something?” Alex began, his voice thick, “When us and the kids went to church last Sunday…I actually prayed. Like, for the first time in my life, I prayed. _Me._ ”

Eliza leaned her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes and breathing in the bitingly cold night air.

“Did it help?” she asked.

He put his arm around her, pulling her close, “I’m not sure really. I couldn’t really tell if anyone was listening. But I did feel…calmer? I prefer talking to you, really. I know you’re definitely there.”

Eliza gave a short, quiet laugh, winding her arms around him too, “Yeah. I am.”

Alex Jr was asleep on the couch when they got back but fortunately the house hadn’t burned down. Eliza was loath to wake him up; she knew he hadn’t been sleeping well recently with everything that had been going on but it was late. And his sleepy smile after he opened his eyes and saw her leaning over him nearly made her cry.

When she returned to the living room after half dragging her son back to his bedroom, Alex was lying on the sofa like he’d fallen on it from a great height, moaning softly. It looked as if his late nights had caught up with him, all at once and with the force of a sledgehammer.

She leaned in the doorway, watching him, thinking. Alex opened his bloodshot eyes and pulled a face.

“My head hurts,” he whined jokingly.

“No wonder,” Eliza smiled. She paused. The idea that had been running around in her mind for a while had finally crystallised, “Stay there, Alex.”

He gave her a quizzical look but he was happy to obey. A few minutes later she came back into his line of sight.

She was holding a notebook and a pencil.

“Keep still,” she said quietly as she settled herself on the chair opposite him, her face relaxing in a way he hadn’t seen in a long time.

“Really?” Alex murmured, scarcely able to speak he was so overwhelmed.

Eliza’s eyes found his. A moment passed between them, the kind of moments two people had when they were standing side by side, hand in hand, facing down the unimaginable.

“Stop crying,” Eliza teased, gently, “I’m bad at drawing sad expressions.”

Alex grinned his crooked smile, the one she hadn’t seen in a long time.

Eliza started to draw, her eyes flickering upwards periodically to see her Alex, watching her in turn.

Things were going to be okay. They were different but that was okay.

 

 

Eliza hadn’t made a habit of looking through her old sketchbooks; nostalgia had never been something she’d chased. But now it was all she had.

Her hands were steady as she turned through the pages, all the moments of her life she’d deemed worthy of recreating. So many of her children, some of her sisters, and pages and pages of Alex. Alex laughing, Alex sleeping, Alex smiling at her the way you smiled at the person you loved more than anything.

She missed him so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been writing a lot of shorter works over on my tumblr blog, quantum_oddity, if you fancy more of this life-ruining ship!

**Author's Note:**

> Hey I'm on tumblr, quantum-oddity. Come interact with me!


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